Violin
by Paradigm of Writing
Summary: The same four clicks and creaks of those violin strings play in his head. Annoying, pestering... Ike can call those notes whatever he chooses. It cannot hide the fact however that his past is catching up far behind. (3rd Overall in Writer of World's Crack Pairing Contest)


**Hey everyone, it's Paradigm of Writing here with a new one-shot called Violin, my entry for Writer of World's Crack Pairing Contest. We had to think of the craziest pairings ever, and since I didn't want to feel uncomfortable wish bestiality or something along the lines, I went with a human pairing... of *peers under glasses at screen decision...* Ah, Ike x Robin(M). When it comes to Smash, any and every thing is possible in the romance category. I just hope I do it well enough to place, considering I have a few strong competitors in my backyard. Well, I shall somehow do this. Bear with me, it'll be a long journey. Please enjoy!**

* * *

Tinnitus music rings in Ike Morgan's ears; it's deep and full of sorrow. He finds it odd that buzzing, mere buzzing, can be so annoying and problematic. The juice of a half-eaten grape stains his jacket, cloth and cotton stiches dig skin deep so his heart is also being stabbed and unmercifully played with by the dull moan. Warm notes from a nearby harp stir unwanted memories in his brain. He is rattled so much, even gripping a nearby counter for support doesn't help cope with the resounding hurt.

All of the alcohol makes a sudden return, a blinding wave of anemic white pouring from his mouth in a steady stream. Ike Morgan feels mortified on the inside and out. Ragged fire licks at his organs, he can feel the burning surge spread all over. The pestering notes cease, and the hushed whispers begin. Although he cannot see them, he can sense pointed fingers full of accusatory blame riddled in the bones poking him in the sides. He screams inwardly first, before unleashing a bellow of terror. Ike leaps up from his huddled spot on the tile floor, scaring many away from him.

Another blast of vomit causes Ike's ability of smell to be overridden with the blank stink of vodka drenched in tearful sobs, boring kisses, and murky tastes of cherry lips. He wishes he could flee, he wishes that peeling eyes wouldn't be staring at him so damn much. That stupid harp. In a matter of seconds, a joyful party transformed into a night of terror, mixed in with dreams and thoughts from an old age that were buried so deep no one could ever find them again.

"Do not think of her! Do not think of your daughter!" Ike growls to himself, clutching his head. Ignorance on his behalf meant more hurtful consequences down the line.

In the end, Ike Morgan is unable to hold back. Sunbeam hair, diamond eyes that chill the ghosts that haunt him. A laugh that rivaled the best comedians, a kindness that an angel would desire to have. His daughter was truly a treasure to behold, and he was proud to claim she had relations to the family name. But, all of that was over in an instant, on the night of her eighteenth birthday. Going out with some friends, she left her old father at home so he could drown in another bottle of booze since her mother had died only months earlier. Ike wasn't always a drinker, least he thought he wasn't. All the brown liquor turned sludge looked the same to him now.

Often while he was alone, Ike would rummage in a closet for an old record player, far too old to say it even belonged to his grandparents. Finding a piece of music from the 1800's, he'd let it play as he was whisked away into worlds that made reality seem fake. The knock at around three in the morning shattered that dream, that soft piece of music. Opening the door to see the neighborhood police officer, the officer's hat over his heart. The news, the news that destroyed one remaining fire in his soul. His daughter was dead. Drunk driver, the officer said. Ike didn't need more information, additional evidence would've killed the sap then and there. That's why he hates the sounds of violins, of harps. Chord ninety-eight of his favorite song was playing when he was told of his daughter's death. The instruments that made that chord happen was a violin and a harp. Gorgeous how life loved screwing him over.

Taking it upon himself to give this drunken driver his revenge, Ike found him, a Robin Mettersworth of Kentucky who was on vacation. Buying a plane ticket, and a rental car, Ike Morgan was on Robin's doorstep the next day. Expecting a woman, he was surprised to meet a gleaming head of pallid hair, stunning crystalline eyes that made Ike's knees clang together. However, his senses were still burning with rage, and Robin met a fist to his nose as the first greeting from Ike Morgan.

Fiery words of anger dripping with drenched screams of fury emptied from Ike's mouth, his tongue clashing with spit as he pounded Mettersworth into a pancake on the posh living room floor. Crimson droplets dripped silently off of Ike's fingertips, out of Robin's nose, out of Ike's heart. The punches stop, and the crying begins. Robin sits up, shocked to see a stoic man turned into a sobbing mess on his doorframe.

"You killed my daughter... she was killed by you. Drunken asshole." Ike breaths raggedly, trying to muster the courage to take down his foe.

Robin blinks, unsure of where the outburst came from. "I've done no such thing."

Five minutes later, and Ike is collapsed over Robin's lap, screaming and bawling his eyes out. His daughter was killed by a drunk driver, it just wasn't Robin. She had killed herself, intoxicated with eleven beers and five glasses of wine coupled with cocaine that made her a complete hazard to the road. Swerving off the main highway, she had crashed into a tree. It was amazing that Ike's daughter was able to even stand after how much she consumed.

Ike clenches a leather jacket, not even sure of who's it may be. Robin gently kisses Ike on the forehead, petting and rubbing the older male's back. When Ike whispers that he wishes he could be kissed again, the second one is hesitant and slow. In the waning hours of night, the moments of intimacy shift from the hall to the bedroom in a sea of blankets and rosy linens that make flower fields.

The harp starts up again... and Ike Morgan is still caught in the old world of romance. How he desires his husband was there to comfort him. How he screams at Robin to stop playing that damned violin, to stop playing the accursed harp.

From the top of the stage, Robin Mettersworth regards his husband with a cold eye. " _It is time he meets his past. I cannot protect him from it anymore_."

The dulling, tinnitus music goes on and on in Ike's head. Just the same four clicks and creaks of those violin strings.

The same four clicks and creaks of those violin strings.

* * *

 **I hope you all enjoyed this! And to Writer of Worlds, I hope you enjoy this just as much, if not more than I did writing it! Thanks for the hosting the contest! And please review guys, I'd love your opinions on it. Thanks for your time you all, I'll see you all later with something more substantial.**

 **~ Paradigm**


End file.
